A Harvest Song
They are the gods of husbandry: they gather in the sheaves,
But when the autumn strips the wood, they're drifting with the leaves.
They plow and sow and gather in the glory of the corn;
They know the noon, they know the pitiless rains before the morn;
They know the sweep of furrowed fields that darken in the gloom—
A little while their hope on earth, then evermore their tomb.
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